


Broken

by debl_ns



Category: Life on Mars (UK)
Genre: Fanfiction, M/M
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2015-06-13
Updated: 2015-06-13
Packaged: 2018-04-04 06:09:31
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 4,245
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/4127787
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/debl_ns/pseuds/debl_ns
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>They were both alive, weren't they? Gene agrees to look after an injured and ungrateful Sam.</p>
            </blockquote>





	Broken

**Author's Note:**

> Written for lifein1973's Ficathon 2012, using basaltgrrl's prompt _Sam gets two broken arms somehow, goes with my series of "two broken arms" artworks, serious or comedic as you wish. Preferences: It's great when you can capture two sides of the character - i.e. Gene's toughness and vulnerability_.
> 
> Not a literal interpretation of Basaltgrrl's artworks. Her artworks:
> 
> http://lifein1973.livejournal.com/2155397.html  
> http://lifein1973.livejournal.com/2089634.html  
> http://lifein1973.livejournal.com/2089934.html  
> http://lifein1973.livejournal.com/2099673.html  
> http://lifein1973.livejournal.com/2103328.html

_Heroes_

“We're not going that way,” Sam said, fingering his seat belt.

“Of course we are,” Gene replied, shifting the gear lever. He took a corner at high speed into a wide alley, tyres squealing on the metalled road.

“Road sign says one-way.”

“I can read.”

“Really?”

“Yes, really. I'm a copper, I know how to follow bloody traffic signs.”

“Sarcasm, Gene. You missed it.”

Pompous little pillock. “You were an only child, weren't you?” Gene saw the suspect vehicle's rear lights up ahead. Alleluia. “Got you, you bastard!” He felt a rush of excitement and pressed down on the accelerator.

They exited the ginnel, Gene barely lifting his foot. He wrenched the driving wheel, feeling it vibrate beneath his hands, and just managed to steer clear of a dog. He glanced over at Sam and caught the frown pinching his face. Gene raised his eyebrow. “What are you giving me that look for? What are you, a bloody dog fancier?”

“Only you could make it sound like an insult. And it's cynophilist.”

“Bless you.” The smell of burning rubber and petrol reached Gene's nostrils and he breathed deeply, turning it into a snort. “I'm a good driver.” They headed into traffic.

“Or a bad one. Depends on how you look at it.”

Gene sighed. A bloody answer for everything. “Oi, I didn't kill the dog. You know what? You've got a tendency towards the pessimistic.”

The police radio crackled as Phyllis said, “All units. Black Ford Escort, number plate JBT 970H still traveling east.”

They crested a hill and, like the car before them, took flight. “Hang on!” Gene shouted. Sam fell back in the seat, bracing his feet in the footwell. Gene held his breath. As they came crashing down, he saw a flash of yellow and narrowly missed a Capri entering the crossroads. “Out of my way, you flaming idiot!”

“Slow down!” Sam yelled.

“Quit whinging! It was just a car.” Gene ran a red light, hitting the horn. A pedestrian on the crossing dived ungracefully back on to the kerb.

“Come on! That traffic light was red!”

“Bloody obvious, that. We're okay, aren't we?”

“Would it matter a toss if I said I wasn't? We're not The Sweeney.”

“Eh?”

“I think I'm going to be sick.”

Even with a quick look Gene could see that Sam looked like death warmed up. Pasty, his Gran used to say. Bugger. “Don't you dare!”

The Escort turned off, and Sam yelled, “Turn right!”, and Gene made the mistake of hitting the brakes too hard. They skidded, tyres screaming, and the Cortina's boot was hit with great force by a pink ice cream van. Gene caught a glimpse of 'Creamy Ice Cream' on its panel as he tried to reach out for Sam, but they were spinning like a top across the road and his fingers brushed soft leather rather than warm skin. He felt a squeeze and knew that Sam's hand had found its way to his leg. Time appeared to slow down; there was no end to the circular motion, and Gene's own stomach rolled. Finally, they came to a stop, facing the wrong way, in the path of a green Morris Minor estate.

“Oh, shit,” Sam whispered.

The estate crashed into them head-on, horn blaring and with a explosive bang, which shook the car and, for a second, Gene was unable to hear. Then the windscreen shattered into small pieces. Body parts thudded against interior surfaces.

Gene felt something warm and wet. Next to him, there was an animal whimper of pain. The dog? What the fuck? He sat there, dazed, trying to figure it out, then he heard the cry again.

Sam.

***

_Hurt_

Gene slumped back in his chair in the corridor outside Sam's room. He hated hospitals. As a copper, he'd spent a lot of time in them. Brightly lit wards, full of sick people. Drawn curtains. The smell of untouched food on bed tables. He put his hand to his forehead and felt five stitches. He was sore, knackered, and things were about to go from bad to worse--which would suit him fine. He enjoyed a good fight. Sam was a right pain in the arse at the best of times, but Gene wasn't about to apologise for the accident, even if he wasn't too happy about the damage to his car. They were both alive, weren't they?

Gene fished his cigarettes out of his shirt pocket. He shook one from the pack and put it in his mouth. He was just about to light it when the door opened, and the doctor gestured for him to enter. Gene nodded, keeping his lips tight on the fag, and followed the man into the room.

Sam looked pale and vulnerable lying there in the bed. His face looked a bit of a mess; he had a few bruises and cuts. Both of his arms were encased in casts from just below his arm pits to his hands, and included the thumbs. Fuck. Gene went to the bed, his hands on his hips, and stood over it for a long time before lighting the cigarette. The doctor waited until he took a deep drag.

“He's had a blow to the head. Luckily, there's no fracture; however, Mr. Tyler--”

“DI Tyler,” Gene interrupted, a cloud of smoke following his words.

“--is suffering from memory loss.”

Gene's forehead furrowed. He rubbed at it, trying to reduce the pain. “Come again?” He was finding it hard to take it in.

“Memory loss.”

Bloody hell. “Memory loss?” Gene snorted, hiding his surprise but aware of the tightness in his neck. “What I tell him comes in one shell-like and goes out the other all the time. Right, Sam?” Gene peered at him through the smoke.

Sam stared back at him with those brown eyes of his, without expression. Gene visualised another time, when they'd been hot as fire.

“Do I know you?” Sam murmured tonelessly.

Gene chuckled. “Me? Of course you do, you git.”

Sam switched his gaze from Gene to the doctor and back again. He frowned.

“It's Gene--DCI Hunt,” Gene replied testily. “Your friend. Boss. And, as you can see, a big, ugly sod.”

“Of course you are.”

Relief flooded over Gene, and he smiled broadly and genuinely at Sam, his shoulders relaxing. “Good. You remember me then?”

“I'm afraid not,” Sam admitted, not returning Gene's smile. “It's your sort. Overbearing, heavyset--you probably spend a lot of time behind your desk--the unmistakable smell of alcohol. Not to mention the ridiculous tie.”

Gene huffed. “I had not been drinking!” He walked to the window, his back to Sam as he looked out over the car park. He raised his head, blew a long, narrow stream of smoke towards the ceiling, then turned and faced the doctor, his face hard. “This memory business. You mean to say he's clean forgotten me, the crash, what?”

“Inspector, DI Tyler is suffering from amnesia.”

Gene drew in a sharp breath, the room's disinfectant filling his lungs and coating his throat. He swallowed and could taste it. “Yes, I see. Is that usual?” he asked.

“It doesn't happen often,” the doctor replied. He smiled tactfully. “It's early days yet; I'm sure it will come back to him soon. It's best for his recovery if he doesn't worry. He needs to rest. DI Tyler feels that this would best be achieved at home. I don't like the idea, but I'm willing to release him as long as you can be there to keep an eye on him.”

Gene nodded. “Fine by me, why the hell not? Won't let him out of my sight.” He placed a hand softly on Sam's shoulder, giving it a squeeze. “I reckon you'll be right as rain tomorrow. So, fancy getting out of here? Just you and me, Sam, chalk and cheese, but we make a good team. We trust each other.”

“The thing is I don't really have a choice,” Sam retorted, holding up his arms. “I'd like to get away from this place, but I need help. I can hardly be on my own, can I? I'll have to stay with you.” He stared at Gene resentfully.

It wasn't the implied criticism that hurt, although Sam had been bloody rude; it was the way he'd said it. Out-of-sorts, like he had a chip on his shoulder weighing him down instead of two plaster casts. “Right. Right!” Gene exclaimed. “I knew you were in there somewhere. Gob the size of the Peak District National Park and the bloody cheek to match.” He stubbed out the fag under his shoe. “Mind you, being your nursemaid's not my idea of a fun time, but what he wants,” he said, jerking his thumb in the doctor's direction, “is what you'll get. So, grin and bear it and get your arse out of bed. You're safe with me.”

***

_Reality_

Gene hailed a taxi and gave the driver Sam's address. Sam was quiet during the drive home, and, after a few minutes had passed, Gene gripped the headrest and twisted in his seat to look at him. Sam was staring straight ahead, uninterested seemingly in either the passing sights of the city or with conversing with Gene. It made him feel unsettled.

They stopped to pick up a takeaway of hot chips before the cabbie pulled up in front of a red-bricked Victorian end of terrace house, which had been converted into flats. Curved, white brick lintels topped the windows, making each one appear to have a drooping eyebrow. The gabled facade could have been charming, but the blue paint on the front door and window sills was faded and peeling. Even though it was the largest of the row of identical houses, its condition made it seem solitary and forlorn.

Sam's flat was on the second floor. Gene led Sam halfway along the landing. “Do you know where we are, Sam?” he asked.

Sam shrugged. “Where are we?” he answered.

“We're home. Just what the doctor ordered.”

Sam sniffed the air. “Bit of a smell though.”

Gene could taste the stale cooking spices that seemed to always be there in the landing, and found it oddly reassuring. He looked at Sam, but he was standing there, uncertainty on his face. Gene fumbled in his pocket for the key to the door, put it in the lock and opened it, stepping aside so Sam could enter ahead of him. Sam hesitated, put his head around the doorway, then stepped across the threshold.

“You can't be serious. You live here?” Sam asked, his voice incredulous.

“Yours not mine. Everything spick and span and orderly--all of the cutlery in their proper sections of the drawer.”

Sam looked around the bed-sit as though he was simply a visitor. He picked up a fading snapshot of a boy wearing a constable's helmet, glanced at it, his face remaining blank, and replaced it just as quickly on the narrow single bed's headboard. “It's not much ...”

You're rather partial to it,” Gene answered. “Must be the view, I reckon.” He walked over to a window and pulled the curtains open. “The best, this. Might move in meself.”

Sam looked obediently outside. “It's a row of curry houses,” he answered, his voice flat.

“It is that.” Gene grinned mischievously. He steered Sam towards a chair. Sam shook him off with a groan. “Your arms?”

Sam kicked off his boots. “I hurt and I'm tired.”

In spite of himself, Gene felt guilt well up inside him, making his ears roar. “You sit here, Sam, whilst I get our food. I'm no Graham Kerr but I'm an expert at chip butties.” He assembled their sandwiches on two plates, buttering the white sliced bread with a generous amount of butter, piling on the chips, and adding red sauce. He was parched. He felt hot and his head was still aching. “What have you got? Any beer in the fridge?”

“I can't remember,” Sam said bitterly.

Bugger. “Never you mind. It'll all come back, in time.” Gene took two bottles of bitter from the fridge. “Do you want a pint?”

“Sure. Great.” He sounded like he couldn't care less.

Gene put them on the small table, followed by the greasy butties. He held the sandwich up to Sam, both hands holding the butty. “Eat.”

Sam looked at him disbelievingly. “Feels a bit strange, having to be fed.” He hesitated then bit into it, filling his mouth.

“Not so bad, is it? Food, then a warm bed. Which side do you sleep on?”

Sam broke into a fit of coughing.

“You all right? Can I get you a drink?” Gene asked with a bit of a smile, but Sam shook his head.

***

_Reflections_

Gene slept in the armchair, a wool blanket wrapped around his shoulders. He woke up the next morning, his hands in his lap, a trail of saliva on his chin and a kink in his neck. He showered, and fixed them both breakfast--sausages, bacon, fried eggs and tomatoes, bringing Sam his in bed. Sam looked as if he was enjoying it, even if he did go on and on about the cholesterol and salt.

“A wash-up and a shave won't do you any harm,” Gene told Sam next. He filled the bathroom sink halfway with warm water and laid out a shaving cup, razor and facecloth. He dipped the cloth in the warm water and dabbed it carefully over Sam's face.

“So, you're a copper,” Sam said.

“We are,” Gene corrected, absurdly pleased that Sam wanted to talk. “Manchester and Salford Police.”

“You're in charge.”

“I am, and don't you--” Forget it. Shit.

“What made you go into the police anyway?”

Why had he joined the police? “I became a copper because I wanted to help people,” Gene answered. “Clichéd, innit?” He dipped the cloth in the water again and repeated the action. “We had just moved up here. M' dad was a big bloke with the personality to match. He worked for a company which manufactured tyres. Mum was a beauty. Quiet, gentle, funny. I had a big brother called Stu. Fought battles for the two of us.”

Gene took the shaving brush, dabbing it with a small amount of shaving lather from the cup, and brushed it over Sam's face. “The old man was consumed by drink, had heavy fists. A right bastard when he was pissed. Swore I wasn't going to be like that.” As he looked into the mirror, grey in his stubble, suddenly and unbidden, he was looking at his father. Getting old, Gene. Growing more and more like him.

Gene passed the razor over Sam's cheeks and jaw in silence, scraping away the stubble. He swished it clean, the water splashing against the sides of the sink. He lathered Sam's face a second time. “Stu always had his head in the clouds. Some bastard got him hooked on speed. He and Mum's housekeeping money disappeared the same day.”

Gene went back over Sam's cheeks and jaw to get a closer shave. “I tried to talk to him. He refused to move back home. Never phoned or visited for months. Broke Mum's heart. Stupid addict.”

“It's hard to lose someone,” Sam said.

“Mmm. He wrote to me a few times. Lied, said things were better than they were. Then, he stopped writing. When I joined the police, in the beginning, I tried to help him, get him off the drugs. Tried everything. Stu didn't want to be helped.” Gene slapped the razor down on the sink, spattering the mirror.

"Gene ..."

"What?” Gene's heart started to race, and his hands shook slightly. “Does this sound familiar? Have you remembered summat?"

“Gene, I ...”

Gene thought he saw something in Sam's expression that might have changed, might have been regret, but it passed so quickly that he had to have been mistaken. Must have been in his own mind, not Sam's. “You don't remember anything,” he finished, his lips pressed together. He looked away from the glass and reached for the razor.

Gene forced his eyes back to Sam. Sam wasn't looking at him. His eyes were closed. When he opened them again, his face was frozen but for a small tremor beneath one eye. Gene wanted to press his finger to it, as if he could heal it, but he rinsed the razor and wiped it on a towel instead.

***

_Truth_

“I'll make us some supper. Summat special for tonight,” Gene said. He busied himself in the kitchen, humming as he opened a tin of baked beans and poured them into a saucepan. “Beans on toast. Either with brown sauce or red sauce. I can never decide between the two.”

“Tell me, Gene, do you moonlight in a greasy spoon?”

“Fat'll feed your brain. An engine can't run without petrol.”

“There's extra shaving stuff in the bathroom,” Sam said, changing the subject. He laid his left arm on the table carefully. “And a toothbrush. Shirts hanging in the wardrobe.”

“I like a pint, like to go out with the boys. Sometimes, I come here. Stay the night.” Whilst the beans were heating, Gene toasted two slices of white bread.

“Do you have a wife?”

Gene spread them with butter. “Had two. The second was for ten years. It was her idea to leave. My fault, not hers. It was the amount of time I was spending away from home--the job, the boozer. We never saw each other. Bad for a relationship.”

“Are you seeing anyone?”

The beans were hot enough, so Gene poured them over the buttered toast. He added some brown sauce then sprinkled pepper liberally over the beans. How would Sam react if Gene were to tell him? Would it jog his memory? “Truth be told, there was this bloke, not so long ago,” he answered finally. “We were close, really close. Kept it to ourselves.”

“You're homosexual.”

“Could be. Just said so, didn't I?” He set their plates on the table. He cut Sam's food into squares and scooped one up with a fork. Sam opened his mouth and Gene shoved it in. “I miss him.”

Sam swallowed. “Miss him?”

Gene took his fork and speared a piece of toast. He put it in his mouth and made a show of chewing. “The companionship, how he made me laugh.” He picked up another bite, stuffing it into Sam's mouth. “The way he made me feel when we were alone … Don't you remember, Sam?”

Sam bowed his head, his eyes focused on his plate. He was having trouble swallowing the toast.

“You're not just someone I work with, you're my friend. More than that, mind. Must be a shock for you then, eh?” Gene asked. Sam looked up, holding Gene's stare. Realisation dawned, and Gene was suddenly not hungry. He pushed his plate aside. He leaned forward so that their heads were almost touching. “Bleeding-Nora,” he said softly. “You know exactly what I'm on about. About us.”

Sam gave Gene a small smile. “I know, yeah.”

“Jesus! That's bloody brilliant!” Gene exclaimed. He breathed out a heavy sigh.

“I never forgot. I was faking it,” Sam admitted.

Gene's mouth fell open. “What?”

“I was faking the amnesia, and you fell for it.”

Gene stiffened and clenched his fists. “You've been winding me up? You lying bastard.” He could feel heat in his cheeks. Did Sam have any idea of his feelings right now? Hadn't he taken care of him, not given up? He'd taken his insults. He'd laid bare his soul. He'd worried about him and all the time … Gene was both relieved and bloody furious. Ready to kick Sam all the way to back to Hyde and be done with it, broken bones be damned. He poked Sam in the chest with a nicotine-stained finger. “How could you do that to me? Keep a bleeding secret like that!”

“Because you put us in the way of a flaming car, Gene!”

“It was an accident!”

“And it was your fault!”

“I'm a good driver!” Gene glared at Sam. “Just one thing: I didn't kill the dog!” Gene pursed his lips, his eyes narrowing to a suspicious squint. “You do this on your own?”

Sam shook his head. “The doc, he helped me, knew I was lying. Asked him if he wanted to earn himself twenty quid.” Sam studied his face. “Are you all right?”

“Bit late to be showing concern, but since you ask … I'm fine, me. Everything's tickety-boo. Ha bloody ha, Sam.” Suddenly, Gene grabbed Sam by the neck of his shirt with his right hand, keeping his grip tight and pulling Sam backwards, and pushed him roughly with his left, towards the wardrobe. He slammed him heavily into it with his whole weight, their bodies close and touching. It was nearly an embrace. “How's that for all right?”

Sam said nothing.

Gene bent his head, looking down into Sam's face. “I can understand why you think you had to do it. But that doesn't make it--” Their eyes met. Sam's were inflamed and wild. “Oh, sod it!” Gene exclaimed. He pressed Sam against him. Jesus, it felt good. He didn't want to think about how good it felt. Sam made to hug him back, but with the casts it was difficult and awkward and he ended up pressing his arms briefly against the small of Gene's back.

***

_Shades_

Gene didn't get much sleep, even with Sam's warm body squeezed against him. He crept out of bed, turning on a lamp, its dim light casting spectral shadows over the walls and ceiling. He sat in the chair a long time, in his pants and vest, staring at Sam as he lay in bed; his head was rolled into the pillow, his arms across his stomach. His mouth was open slightly, revealing his front teeth. He was sleeping soundly, his breathing regular.

Sam's deception still rankled in Gene's gut like a feed of too many sausages and beer. He'd promised Sam that he wouldn't lay a glove on him--well, he had held Sam with his arms, rested his chin on Sam's shoulder, but, sodding hell, he'd needed it too. They'd kissed, Gene's tongue running over Sam's lips, but he'd broken the contact and pulled away before Sam opened his mouth and Gene's tongue betrayed him and pushed inside.

He'd gone shopping at the shop on the corner. Had been back in two ticks. As far as Sam was concerned, he'd picked up some milk for tea plus the evening paper. But there had been more on Gene's list. He unrolled his fingers, revealing a small bottle of Natural Wonder nail enamel, and a tissue, that he'd been holding in the palm of his hand. He ran his thumb across the words 'Red Pepper'. “Couldn't resist it, could you?” Gene muttered aloud. “Couldn't resist taking the piss.” He couldn't let Sam get away with it, wasn't going to change his mind, even if he had already forgiven him.

Gene crouched by the bed. He tore the tissue in half, rolled each piece between his fingers, and weaved them between Sam's toes. He dipped the brush into the enamel. He drew a horizontal line across the base of Sam's toenail, then with a steady hand, using slow, even, upward brush strokes, Gene painted Sam's toenail. He repeated the action until he'd applied the shade to all ten toes.

There. All done. Gene scrutinised his handiwork. “That, Hunt, was one of your better ideas,” he said with satisfaction.

Sam turned his head from the pillow, screwing up his eyes. “What are you doing?” he mumbled.

“Just got up to take a slash and smoke a ciggie,” Gene replied. “Go back to sleep, Twinkle-toes.”

Sam turned back into the pillow. “Mmm … Don't take too long.”

“Let me have my smoke first.”

Sam opened one eye. “What do you mean, Twinkle-toes?” He struggled to sit up, heaving himself upright with a grunt.

Gene was silent as he lit a fag. “Just a bit of fun,” he said with a smile. “Had to grab my chance when it came.”

“What's so damn funny?”

“Nothing.”

“I don't believe you.” Sam swung his legs over the side of the bed, his feet touching the floor. “Why do you look so smug? What did you do?”

“No need to make a fuss,” Gene answered. “Tarted up your piggies, is all.”

Sam looked down at his feet. “You bugger!”

Gene pushed out his bottom lip. “I don't see the problem. You can always wear socks.”

Sam lifted his right leg, giving Gene another view of his foot. When he put it down again, he frowned. “I don't know ...”

“Speaking of hot--”

Sam shot him a look.

“--how about a cuppa? I'll put the kettle on and make us some tea, warmed enough to burn your tongue and strong, just the way you like it.”

“Thanks, Gene.”

“With a splash of whisky,”Gene said. “You'll love it.” He kissed Sam on the top of the head. His eyes strayed to his camel coat, folded over the table. And when Sam fell asleep, Gene would get the second bottle of enamel from its pocket and apply a coat to Sam's fingernails. Then he'd head to bed himself. He'd drift off to sleep eventually, Sam in his arms. Have sweet dreams.

Sam should look right tasty in 'Mushroom'.


End file.
